


give a little heat to the heart that was born to run

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Falling In Love, Family, Flirting, Fluff, Humor, Sexual Content, Summer Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-11-02 19:50:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10951536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: When Jon accepts his friend Robb’s invitation to spend the summer at the Starks’ vacation house, he looks forward to little more than a rowdy holiday with the boys. But his expectations are far and away exceeded when he meets Robb’s sharp-tongued, knock-you-to-your-knees sister.Jon won’t say it to his mates, but it seems to him that Sansa Stark’s just the type of girl all those summer love songs are about.(work and chapter titles from “keep me crazy,” by sheppard)





	1. here you are without any warning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [qinaliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/qinaliel/gifts).



When Jon pulls into the long, winding driveway of the Starks’ summer home, the last thing he expects to see is a girl lounging on the sweeping front steps of what Jon can only call a porch, although that seems too modest a word. He’d known that Robb, his university roommate of the past two years, was loaded, but this place is more than Jon had anticipated. It’s more a mansion than some modest beach bungalow, that’s for sure, and mansions don’t have bloody _porches_. Or perhaps they do, but something about it just doesn’t add up, if you ask him.

He’d also known that of Robb’s four siblings, there was only one he hadn’t yet met. “Girl” isn’t quite right to describe the person sitting on the steps, either, but Jon knows at a glance that she’s the elusive Sansa Stark. Her photos hardly did her justice, he thinks as he parks his car and tries to gather some composure before meeting her. Or perhaps it was only because Jon hadn’t lingered too long on her picture, lest Robb deck him for it, that he feels so unprepared after just one cursory look at her in real life.

But _damn_ if she’s not a vision; he doesn’t need more than a cursory look to recognize such a bald-faced fact. Jon gives the steering wheel one final, bracing squeeze, and reminds himself that her name is _Sansa_ and not “legs for days.”

_That’s no one’s name_ , he thinks rather stupidly. _It’s just a… character attribute._

_Oh, for fuck’s sake, man, don’t say that to her._

It’s been approximately ten seconds and Jon’s already sick of listening to himself. He kicks the car door open and makes for the porch before his brain can come up with any more stupid shit he has to remind himself not to say out loud.

“Hullo,” he calls out as he approaches. He waves an awkward hand before stuffing them both in his pockets.

“Hi,” Sansa says in a voice like wind chimes. Jon’s quite glad he’s already got his hands in his pockets, otherwise he’d use this opportunity to punch himself in the face for his wayward, nauseatingly poetic thoughts. “You must be Jon.”

“I am.” Jon raises his eyebrows while Sansa sucks down whatever’s in the plastic mason jar she’s cradling. “I take it you’ve heard of me, then.”

She nods. “I stalked your Facebook, too.”

Jon can’t say he hadn’t done the same—it was one thing to see Robb’s snapshot, which he kept with all the other family photos in his billfold, but Jon had wanted a little more intel than an old polaroid could offer. Sansa kept her social media rather private, but Jon had spent more time than he’d care to acknowledge clicking through her most recent profile pictures. She was just… really fucking pretty, okay? Call him shallow, but it made Jon want to get to know her better; and at least he can admit to his baser instincts, and that’s got to count for something.

Or maybe it doesn’t, Jon thinks when his gaze fixates on the way Sansa’s lips wrap around the straw in her drink. Probably best if he just keeps all of this to himself.

“What is that?” He nods at the cup and wonders if it’s safe to walk up a few steps. He takes two to test it, then pauses. “What you’re drinking, I mean.”

“Oh. Lemonade margarita.” Sansa shakes it a bit, clinking ice against the plastic. “Don’t mind the mason jar. I’m not, like, a hipster, it’s just the biggest cup we’ve got and I need a lot of tequila.”

“It’s—” Jon consults his watch— “ten-thirty in the morning.”

She shrugs. “I’m on vacation.”

Jon lifts an eyebrow. “From sobriety?”

She slurps noisily, smacks her lips, and says a bit haughtily, “You’re not making a very good first impression, you know.”

“Yeah, I tend not to.” He grins, unfazed by her tone. Unless he’s reading this wrong—and he very well could be, mind—they’re flirting, so he doesn’t plan to take anything she says too much to heart.

“Well, I’m in a forgiving mood, so I’ll give you some advice, anyway.” Sansa takes another generous sip of her drink, then flicks some imaginary dust from her impeccably manicured nails. “Despite common patriarchal thought, women of the hetero persuasion do not actually respond positively to douchebags.”

“And are you a woman of the hetero persuasion?”

Sansa considers him for a moment, as though she’s weighing the pros and cons of telling him a damn thing about herself. Ultimately she decides to give him a couple of scraps and says, “As long as you don’t touch me. I’ve developed a distaste for the male touch.”

_Well, shit._ Robb had mentioned his sister’s string of lousy boyfriends, but he’d never revealed more details than that, either because he didn’t know or because he respected Sansa’s privacy on the matter. Jon suspects that it’s a bit of both. Either way, he pumps the brakes on his lackluster flirtations; it seems the last thing Sansa needs is to be hit on by some guy she’s only just met.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and looks it. “We’re not kidding around anymore, are we?”

“No,” Sansa sighs and sets her cup aside for the time being, “but _I’m_ sorry. I mean, we _just_ met. I don’t usually dump my dirty laundry on people until I’ve known them at least three days.”

Jon nods, then offers her another grin. “We’ll talk about it on Thursday, then.”

Sansa hesitates for only a moment, but then her face splits into a smile to match his own. “I take back what I said about your first impression. You’ve redeemed yourself rather nicely.”

Before Jon can thank her for her forgiveness and continue to test the waters between them, they’re joined by the appearance of Robb and Theon, who come bounding out the front door, beers in hand. Robb tosses one carelessly to Jon, who thanks every god who might be listening for his expert reflexes. The last thing he wants is exploded beer all over him; he has plenty of opportunities to embarrass himself in front of Sansa without her brother’s help.

After all, Jon’s never been any great shakes with girls, but he’s already found Sansa immeasurably easy to talk to. He’s quite sure she’s the prettiest girl he’s ever managed to speak to at all, much less sort of flirt with. So, yeah, maybe he’ll fuck it up. But then… maybe he won’t, and he’s sure as hell not going to let Robb fuck it up _for_ him.

Besides, Robb will probably punch him in the face if this works out in Jon’s favor, so he feels like that’s a fair enough trade.

“Hey, Snow.” Robb plops himself down on the step below Sansa’s. He cracks his beer open and takes a swig. “Good drive?”

“Not bad,” Jon agrees. It’s barely eleven but he takes a pull from his own drink; they _are_ on vacation, as Sansa had said just a few minutes ago. “Probably should have given up my opening shift at the library, though, I’m right knackered.”

“You look wide awake to me,” Theon notes casually, but a wicked smirk blooms as he looks between Jon and Sansa. He prides himself on having an eye for sexual tension, and his mouth is too big not to share with the class. Withholding information just isn’t the same sort of fun, so he nudges Sansa’s hip with his toe and says, “Have you been flirting with the new boy?”

“Oi!” Robb points a finger at him. “My sister doesn’t flirt. She’s a nun.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Even if that held up logically, you know I just broke up with Harry.”

“Oh?” Jon’s eyebrow quirks up again, this time in interest, as he hadn’t been able to determine her relationship status from her Facebook. “So you’re single?”

“Don’t _you_ start now,” Robb warns, then jerks a thumb at Theon. “I’ve already got my hands full with that one.”

“What did _I_ do?”

“This week?” Sansa pretends to think about it as she busies herself with her margarita again. “Stared at my tits when I was coming out the pool.”

Theon gestures wildly, reaching for what sounds like an oft-repeated explanation. “There was a bee on you.”

“No, there wasn’t,” Sansa and Robb say in unison, the former deadpan and the latter furious.

“This is what I’m talking about,” Robb continues, as though any of them are still interested in his overprotective big brother schtick. “This is why you’re not allowed to talk to boys. I mean, for god’s sake, Theon’s no better than Harry.”

“Well I’m not going to date Theon,” Sansa points out. She offers the man in question an apologetic little shrug. “No offense.”

“That’s alright,” he says breezily, “no one wants to date me.”

Jon ignores the conspiratorial wink Theon sends his way. He’s not sure what, exactly, they’re supposed to be in on together, and frankly he doesn’t want to know. Instead, he addresses Sansa when he chimes in, “I can’t believe you dated a guy named Harry. What was he, like a sixty-year-old investment banker?”

Sansa snorts, an action that somehow doesn’t diminish her inherent elegance. “That is so oddly specific. How many investment bankers do you have in your acquaintance, exactly?”

“You know Harry, Jon,” Robb interrupts. He chugs half his beer and swipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “That Hardyng bloke, the one who played us in the football championships, remember?”

“Oh, that guy?” Jon wrinkles his nose in distaste, then looks back to Sansa. “I think you would’ve done better with the old investment banker.”

She slurps at what sounds like are the final vestiges of her tequila-and-ice. “You and me both, love.”

“Gah!” Robb chokes out, then points the ever-accusing finger at his sister. “Stop flirting with my friends!”

“Get uglier friends,” she suggests flatly.

“Jon’s ugly.”

Jon jerks his chin in acknowledgement. “Hey, thanks, mate.”

“He’s not ugly,” Sansa counters as she studies him. Jon shifts from one foot to the other, feeling suddenly awkward under her intense blue gaze. The girl can _stare_ , he notices, and sort of feels as though he’s having holes drilled into his skin. But it’s not for nothing, because not half a minute later she adds, “He sort of looks like what I bet Batman would look like if he starred in a dirty romance novel instead of, like, a superhero franchise.”

“I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean,” Robb says while Theon guffaws.

“He’s all handsome and broody,” Sansa supplies. Her accompanying wink is one that Jon gladly accepts. “And face it, Robb, Batman’s a broody son of a bitch.”

Robb crushes his empty beer can beneath his foot in pure, unadulterated rage. “He saw his parents DIE, _right in front of him_ , you heartless shrew.”

Sansa smirks. “Wonder Woman wouldn’t let that stop her.”

“It doesn’t stop him!” Robb argues in such a way that Jon suspects they’ve gone at this particular debate about a million times before. “It motivates him! It’s the driving force behind Batman’s entire legacy!”

Sansa rubs her middle finger and thumb together, miming her play on the world’s smallest violin, but cuts her brother off before he can continue the argument. “Fine, fine. Batman’s prepubescent angst is an integral plot point. _My_ point, however, remains that if you don’t want me to flirt with your friends, you need to quit making nice with the ones who look like they walked straight off the pages of _Gotham City GQ_.”

“That’s not even a real magazine!”

“You know, I really waste my cleverness on you.”

The pair of them continue to bicker in normal sibling fashion, which Theon uses to his advantage when he skips down the steps to join Jon.

“They do this all the time,” Theon tells him. “Robb takes it way more seriously than Sansa does, she just likes to get under his skin. Looks like she’s gotten under yours, too, amirite, Snow?”

Theon waggles his eyebrows and Jon elbows him in the ribs. “Don’t be such a dick.”

“Blow me, douchebag,” Theon retorts easily, with no trace of malice to be found amidst his good humor. “Robb fancies himself a master at weeding out the guys who’ll hit on Sansa, but really he’s blind to it. Can’t fool me, though. You’ve got the worst case of puppy dog eyes I’ve ever seen. It’s actually rather pathetic.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jon mutters into his beer, and takes another swig to avoid saying anything that’ll give him away.

But of course, Jon knows he can’t fool Theon, no more than he can fool himself. He’s an open book sort of guy; he couldn’t hide his heart up his sleeve if he tried. He only hopes he can keep his cool long enough to… Well, he’s not actually sure what he means to do, whether he can keep his cool in check or not. And if he’s honest with himself, he probably won’t be able to keep it in check at all.

It had only taken that first cursory glance, and Jon had immediately known that he’s well and truly fucked. But when Sansa catches his eye again, a grin tugs at the corners of her pretty lips, and Jon thinks that—all things considered—being well and truly fucked might not be such a bad thing.


	2. you could save me

It doesn’t take Jon long to figure out that the Starks adhere to a strict summer schedule: Beach by day, house party by night. Or, as Jon privately thinks of it: Sansa in a bikini by day, Sansa in a dangerously-close-to-sheer sundress by night.

Even privately, it’s a reckless thought to have. Jon knows how easy he is to read; neither Sansa nor Robb seem to have caught on to him, but everyone else ascertains his interest just as quickly as Theon had.

“Find your chill, you fucking _loser_ ,” Arya tells him when she catches his slack-jawed appreciation of a dripping Sansa in a two-piece.

“If Robb could read your mind, he’d skin you alive,” Bran says, more matter-of-fact than anything.

“Oh, and you can read my mind, can you?” Jon wants to know.

Undeterred by the sand he’s parked on, Bran pops a wheelie in his chair. “Not literally, but your body language tells me more than I care to know.”

“I don’t want to know any of this,” Rickon pipes up. He sighs dramatically and places a hand over his heart. “ _However_. If you buy me beer, I will very generously tell Sansa that I walked in on you in the shower and _boy_ , she doesn’t know what she’s missing.”

Arya swats a beach towel at him. “Okay, first of all, you’re fifteen and no one’s buying you beer. Second, what the fuck?”

“What?” Rickon bristles. “Are you telling me that’s not what girls are after?”

 _“Dick measurements?”_ Arya says, aghast and loud enough that an older couple nearby tosses her a dirty look, which she promptly ignores. “No, you daft pervert, that’s not what girls are after.”

“Size matters not.”

“Shut up, Yoda.” Arya snaps the towel at Bran’s shins, making him laugh because his paralysis ensures that he won’t feel a thing. “And Jon, I swear to god, just… keep your dick away from my sister.”

Jon sputters a bit, but somehow manages to find the words, however fruitless they may be. “You’re all being wildly presumptuous.”

The three youngest—and far too perceptive—Starks exchange a look that Jon can’t begin to interpret before Arya rolls her eyes.

“Whatever you say, lover boy,” she drones. “Just keep in mind, if you break her heart, I’ll steal your car and mow you down with it. I’ve already got dibs on decking Hardyng at the first available opportunity.”

“So Hardyng gets punched, and I get run over with my own car?” Jon lifts his hands, palms-up, weighing the two consequences against one another. “Show me where that’s fair.”

“The punishment fits the crime,” Arya explains, all professionalism. “Harry’s an arse and a half, and I’d rather he and Sansa broke up. So even though he was the ultimate prick, she’s better off without him. But then you come along, and you’ll make her fall in love with you because you’re generally a good guy, so if you did anything stupid like reject her or argue with her or have even the most minimal of miscommunications that would make her doubt herself, and I’d have to both insult and injure you. _Capisci?_ ”

Jon lifts his hands again, this time in surrender. “Okay, Don Corleone. Swear on my life, I won’t break her heart.”

 _“Ah.”_ Bran steeples his fingers and nods sagely. “So you _do_ have a vested interest in her heart, then, despite your earlier claim that we’re all being—and I quote—‘wildly presumptuous’?”

“What are you, a lawyer?”

Bran only smiles, quite satisfied with himself. “Sansa’s on her way over, so we’ll leave you to it. Come on, lads, let’s head to the snack bar.”

“Race you!” Rickon scrambles up and takes off towards the boardwalk. Arya jumps on the back of Bran’s wheelchair and _whoops!_ as they tail their brother in a hot pursuit, leaving Jon alone to greet an approaching Sansa.

A slick, wet, half-naked Sansa, who drops to the towel beside Jon and shakes her damp hair all over him.

“What?” she says when he splutters and rubs the water from his eyes. “I thought you could use the cool-down. You’re all flushed.”

It’s no small wonder why, Jon thinks. He won’t say it aloud, but he’s not quick enough to keep his gaze from following the long line of her body. Thankfully for his ego, Sansa doesn’t appear to notice; if she does, she’s kind enough not to call him out on it. He really isn’t just some tactless, lustful lech, and he can only appreciate that she’s giving him the chance—whether intentionally or not—to prove it.

“You’re one to talk.” Jon pokes her vibrant pink shoulder. “Ever hear of sunscreen?”

Sansa picks up a bottle and shakes it at him. “SPF 80. It’s not my fault that I’ve got sensitive skin. It’s why we keep the house stocked with aloe vera. I’m already planning to spend a very sticky, uncomfortable evening drenched in the stuff and not moving a muscle.”

“Well, if you need any help…” Jon trails off. Sansa covered in aloe vera shouldn’t be half as enticing as it is, but as he can’t possibly keep all his dirty thoughts to himself without fear of implosion, he hopes she takes it for a joke.

“I’ll save my lower back for you.” Sansa winks, and Jon’s stomach clenches as he wonders whether she _did_ take it for a joke or not. “But only if you stop looking at me like that.”

So perhaps he hadn’t been completely inconspicuous. Jon isn’t surprised in the slightest, but all the same he decides to feign ignorance. “Looking at you like what?”

“Like you’re going to pounce on me and shag me senseless at any moment.” She gestures at his face, as though Jon could see his expression if she only pointed it out to him. “I’d let you shag me, but I need a little more prep time than the five seconds you’d grant me.”

Jon opens his mouth, shuts it, then opens it again only to stutter, “I’m not—I don’t—Christ, Sansa, don’t tell Robb.”

She laughs, and pushes his reddening face to ease the tension from it. She’s only having a go at him; Sansa doesn’t for a moment imagine that Jon’s interest in her is anything but a passing flirtation. She’s almost convinced herself of it, and “almost” is as far as she ever gets. She doesn’t care to set herself up for disappointment, but that last flutter of hope won’t be deterred so easily. She simply has to learn to live with it.

“I’m teasing,” she assures him, with no way of knowing how his heart deflates at the words. “Besides, you really think I’d sic my brother on you? I thought you had a higher opinion of me than that.”

Jon shrugs, but can’t resist the urge to pinch her waist. “You did say I made a lousy first impression. Maybe it was enough to put me on your list.”

“Jonathan—” Sansa begins, rather imperiously, only to be interrupted by his correction.

“Jon.”

“Jacob,” she continues as though he hadn’t said anything, even though now she was clearly _trying_ to irk him. “You just have to trust me. Don’t I seem trustworthy, James?”

He pinches her again, and Sansa slaps his hand away before he starts tickling her. She likes his hands on her far too much. “Maybe if you’d get my name right.”

“Oh, relax, Steve, I’m only joking.”

“Now you’re not even trying.”

She sighs, smirks, and drops her sunglasses over her eyes. “Whatever you say, Paul.”

* * *

Jon’s not sure what, exactly, compels him to do it, but he’d put money on the alcohol. He really had meant to keep his cool—to “find his chill, you fucking _loser_ ,” as Arya had put it—but he’d never been particularly good at keeping things to himself. As much as it irks him that people could read him so easily, it had its perks, first and foremost the fact that he never has to make any grand confessions to anything because everyone already knows how he feels and what he has to say about it.

But the problem this time is that Sansa _doesn’t_ know.

He doesn’t have to tell her, either. He probably shouldn’t tell her. It’s barely been ten days since he met her; he shouldn’t be this over-the-moon to begin with. But he’d been so obvious and still she hesitates. Oh, she’s quick with a one-liner, but already he’s begun to think that that’s nothing more than a defense mechanism. She always knows what to say, but she second-guesses everything else—her smiles flicker before she beams, her hand hovers before she touches, and her gaze twitches in all directions before it settles comfortably on his.

Sansa had told him that it was her “dirty laundry” and he’d said they could talk about it. More than a week after the fact, he realizes that she’d never expected him to make good on that promise. Jon can’t claim to know all the intimate details of her history, but he’s guessed enough to know that it’s going to take a lot of convincing for her to believe just about anything he tells her.

Not that he minds. One look at her sad eyes, and Jon’s willing to give her all the time in the world.

When he makes his first move, it’s nearly one on a Wednesday morning. The Starks’ latest party has died down to the gentle thrum of the stereo system and maybe a dozen stragglers doing shots at the basement bar. Bran is snoozing in the sitting room, blissfully unaware that Robb and Theon have been belting incorrect lyrics to “American Pie” for at least half an hour. Despite Arya’s insistence that underage Rickon abide by the law, he’d passed out after shotgunning beers with Theon, at which point Arya had given up on the lot of them and left to hit the boardwalk bars with some of her school mates.

“Have fun!” Sansa had said, planting a sloppy kiss on her sister’s cheek. “No boys.”

“Back atcha,” Arya had replied, looking pointedly at Jon, who only raised his hands in an acquiescence that neither of them believed.

Since Arya had already known he was full of shit, Jon doesn’t feel so bad about meeting Sansa on the back deck now that the party’s fizzling out. She’s curled up on the swinging bench, an open bottle of wine on the pebbled glass table in front of her.

“Hey,” Jon says to announce his presence, as the opening of the sliding door didn’t seem to do the trick. Sansa’s staring at a spot at the end of the vast backyard, and it looks as though her mind’s wandering further still.

She turns at the sound of his voice, offering him a warm smile that doesn’t quite reach her dilated pupils, but it’s close. “Hey. Run out of booze?”

“Not even close, but my tolerance is running low,” he admits, taking the seat next to her. The bench kicks up a little at the movement, and continues to rock when Sansa plants one foot on the deck to keep the gentle sway going. He nods at the wine. “I see you’re still going strong.”

“Bricco.” Sansa picks up the bottle and takes a pull from it, unaware that Jon is transfixed by the bob of her throat. “Helps me sleep.”

“You alright?”

Sansa waves a dismissive hand. “I’m fine, just on the verge of getting sad drunk and ugly crying in the bathroom. Not for any particular reason,” she adds before he can ask. “Just succumbing to the depressant, that’s all.”

Not knowing what else to do, Jon nods and says, “Sure.”

She tilts her head, her lips twisting in a smile as she looks at him. “Do you know how to handle a hysterical woman, Jon?”

“Not even a little bit.”

Her laugh is low and lilting. “Ay, I bet you would, though. You don’t think you’re a smooth operator, Jon Snow, but that just makes you all the more endearing.”

 _Endearing?_ Well, it’s certainly not the worst thing a girl’s ever said about him. Jon thinks he can work with endearing, even if it makes him sound more like a confused puppy than the air of machismo he’d prefer.

As if she knows what he’s thinking, Sansa continues, “Nobody really wants a smooth operator, anyway. Not really. Those are the sort of guys I’ve always gone with. They’re put-together, they say all the right things—” she pauses to take another long pull of sweet gold wine— “but the thing is, they don’t mean a word of it. They just know it sounds good.

“You, though…” Sansa trails off as she meets his eye. As usual, it takes a few seconds before their gazes lock, but when they do Jon doesn’t think a goddamn meteor landing at his feet could make him look away. “You’re an honest one, aren’t you? You’d know what to say, but you’d only say it if you meant it. You’d tell me the truth.”

It sounds more like Sansa’s trying to convince herself than she’s actually asking him, so Jon’s not sure if he should answer. He offers a small smile, which seems to be good enough for her, although Jon’s quite sure that it’s not. She just won’t say it.

Emboldened by the liquor swimming in his brain, Jon closes the distance between them with a hand in her hair, his fingers dragging from her roots to the ends that hang nearly to her elbows. She closes her eyes and leans into his touch, her contented sigh hitting his wrist and making his pulse race.

“Do you want me to tell you that you can trust me?” he wants to know, his voice barely a whisper above the warm summer breeze that teases the wind chimes. The gentle tinkling reminds him of Sansa’s laugh, and for the umpteenth time he thinks about how in over his head he is already; and for the umpteenth time, he can’t bring himself to care.

“I don’t know if I’d believe you,” Sansa murmurs. She keeps her eyes shut, not sure that she can look at him when she says it. His fingers continue their ministrations through her hair and she wants so badly to believe him. But she can’t be stupid anymore, can’t be careless; she couldn’t bear it, not again, not this time.

Maybe this is just a new level of stupid, she thinks. But all she’d ever known is the crash-and-burn, and it doesn’t take long for it to feel like the risk isn’t worth it. The thrill of the fall does nothing to cushion the blow when, inevitably, the fall’s over and all you’re left with is the swooping disappointment that follows. Sansa thought she’d found her peace with that, and then out of nowhere Jon shows up and suddenly she’s not so sure.

It’s been, what, two weeks? she wonders. Not even. She hates that he can make her feel this way so soon. She’d always been too quick to trust, to fall, and for once she thought she’d had it under control. But now, with Jon’s hand in her hair and his breath on her cheek and his eyes… _god_ , those eyes. She doesn’t need to open her own to see the way they’re looking at her. She can tease him about the way he watches her all she likes, but it makes her melt.

She doesn’t know what he’s like when he’s not with her, but with her… Sansa has never known anyone to be this gentle. So of course she melts. How could she help it otherwise?

He says her name, prodding her from her thoughts. Sansa opens her eyes to find that, yes, he’s looking at her in just that way again—head tilted towards hers, pupils blown wide, brow furrowed slightly as though he’s trying to decide something and, god, Sansa wishes he could just make up his mind already.

Once he knows he’s got her attention, Jon smiles and says, “In the interest of being honest, I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Oh?” Sansa straightens. “Is it that you really _are_ a crime-fighting billionaire with a nice car and questionable morals?”

The corners of his eyes crinkle when he laughs, and his voice is edged in it when he says with no further preamble, “I’ve got a thing for you, Sansa Stark.”

His words are a punch to her gut—a delicious, reeling punch that she’s not accustomed to, so she can’t help it when she blurts, “No you don’t.”

“I do,” he counters as though he’d known she was going to deny it.

Sansa shakes her head. She takes Jon’s hand from her hair and plays with his fingers for just a moment before she pulls away. She needs some distance, needs to collect herself; she’d taken this conversation too seriously from the start, and she needs to get them back on that whole passing-fancy-flirtation thing. It’s easier. It’s _safer_. And she can’t think straight when he’s touching her.

“You’re just saying that because you’re mesmerized by my good looks,” she tells him now, trying for a wry smile. “Trust me, it won’t last. Never does.”

Jon shrugs. She’s reacting pretty much just as he expected she would, but it’s no skin off his teeth to keep at it. “If you say so. I’ll just prove you wrong.”

Sansa huffs, a bit insulted now. “I’m never _wrong_.”

“First time for everything.”

“Not for stupid things.”

“It’s not stupid.” Jon snatches the wine from her hands and takes a swig. God, but he bets she tastes this sweet… His muscles practically spasm when he thinks of how he’d rather lean in and lick the bricco from her lips.

But he needs to keep himself at least somewhat in check— _I’ll kiss her later, I will, I’ll do it_ —so for now he resists the urge to take her under the knees and toss her back on the swing and… and… _Fuck_. Do a lot of things he has no business doing on the back porch of her parents’ beach house. Especially when her crazy-ass brother could walk out here at any moment. Robb might not notice the way Jon notices Sansa, but Jon’s pretty sure he’d notice if he caught them getting busy on the porch swing.

“It’s not stupid,” he repeats when Sansa gives him that dubious look. It’s far easier to bicker with her than it is to fantasize about her, anyway. “I’ll change your mind, then you’ll see that I was right the whole time.”

“Mhmm.” Sansa pops her lips. “I just bet I will.”

“And you’d win that bet.” Jon pushes himself from his seat, willing to concede for the night—or the morning, as it were.

He takes a moment of consideration before he heads back inside, studying Sansa beneath the bright outdoor lights as she studies him standing in near-shadow. He doesn’t know what he sees, or what she does—a challenge, maybe? A question that neither of them has the answer to just yet? The mutual recognition that, yeah, they’ve taken this pretty far pretty fast without actually _going_ anywhere, but don’t they want to go somewhere? Shouldn’t they be _doing_ something about this?

But the thing is, Jon knows, is that Sansa doesn’t believe him when he says that there’s something to be done about at all. That had been the whole basis of this conversation, but at some point words ring hollow when he’s not doing anything to back them up.

So now, beneath the garish yellow porch light, Jon decides that one little move won’t completely push him over the edge.

He stoops so he’s almost eye-level with Sansa and his hand is back in her hair, tucking it behind her ear, and he’s pressing his lips to her temple in one fluid motion. Before he can think of it, before he can tell himself not to, he tastes her crisp clean perfume and long-dried sweat, and he closes his eyes in momentary reverence when she leans into him again.

“Jon…” she starts to say, but she doesn’t have the faintest clue where she’s going with it.

“‘Night, Sansa,” he breathes into her hair, and pulls back before his mouth gets the better of him. “See you in the morning.”

“Yeah.” Her heart stutters. “‘Night.”

Sansa watches him head back through the sliding glass door. He looks over his shoulder and smiles, and she wonders what the hell she’s gotten herself into.


	3. it was love in a minute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i originally intended to finish this fic in its entirety tonight, but then i made too many tequila slammers so now i’ve only got chap3 updated—BUT it’s like obscenely long, so we’re square, yeah?

“You want to fuck Sansa, don’t you?”

Jon nearly spits out his beer, but manages to choke it down through a series of painful coughs as he turns to stare incredulously at a smirking Theon.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not fuckin’ sayin’ it again.” Theon jerks his chin towards the shore, where Sansa and Arya are standing ankle-deep in the water, skipping rocks with one hand and holding drinks with the other. “She’s fit, I’ll grant you that—”

Jon wipes spilled beer from his T-shirt. “Don’t make me deck you.”

Theon snorts. “I’m not the one you’ve got to worry about. Look around, Snow. Sansa’s getting eye-banged all over.”

Against his better judgment, Jon follows Theon’s line of sight around the beach. He hates to give the guy credit for anything, but Jon has to admit that he’s not wrong: Sansa has quite clearly caught the eye of several party-goers. He can’t say he’s surprised—at least, he shouldn’t be, but truth be told Jon hadn’t worried about it; he hadn’t even _thought_ about it. Which, in hindsight, was rather stupid of him.

But then, Jon’s not the jealous type. He’s never dated much to begin with, and while the relationships he’s had obviously haven’t worked out, they’d never given him cause to develop any sort of insecurity. Now, though…

Well. Jon takes another swig of beer. He might have dropped his heart right into Sansa’s lap, but that doesn’t mean she owes him anything in return. She’s free to do as she likes. But Jon would be lying—he admits solely to himself—if he said it didn’t irritate the ever-living fuck out of him every time some prick checked out her arse.

“I’m not eye-banging her,” Jon defends himself for virtually no reason at all; besides that, he’s never lied so wildly in all his life. He ignores Theon’s smirk and gestures with his can before taking another draw from it. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m not the one with drool on my chin.” Theon sniggers.

Before Jon can deny it (or even wipe his face), the subject of their discussion is walking purposefully towards them, her damp feet leaving dark, deliberate prints in the sand behind her.

“Sod off,” Sansa orders Theon, albeit good-naturedly. “I need to talk to Jon.”

“And my dazzling good looks are too distracting for you to have a conversation with anyone else.” Theon nods solemnly. “I get it.”

“You’re so understanding.”

“It’s a lonely life the beautiful live.” Theon sighs, then, when he thinks Sansa’s not looking, gives Jon one of those winks that annoy and befuddle him in equal measure. “I’m off, then. I’ll distract Robb from whatever it is the two of you are gonna do, so long as you promise to use protection.”

Sansa places a hand to her heart. “I’m never without a prophylactic.”

“Good man.” Theon raises his bottle in a _cheers_ , then ambles off through the sand to find some trouble with Robb.

“Right then.” Sansa turns to Jon, and he’s already suspicious of what she’s about to ask because her eyelashes are batting away. Not that it matters what she wants, as Jon is so far gone that he can admit he’ll give it to her, whatever it is. “I need your help.”

“Oh?” _Intrigue_ , but Jon remains wary. Girls don’t often ask him for things, and the way Sansa looks at him does something funny to the inside of his chest. It’s not the safest of combinations, but Jon’s not complaining. “Do tell.”

Sansa takes a breath, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and says, “Harry’s here.”

“Oh,” Jon says again, rather uselessly. “Your ex? That’s a bit… anticlimactic, honestly.”

She laughs. “Shut up, I’m getting to the point. Look, Harry’s just—annoying? I suppose that’s it, or as good as any other word to describe him—Jesus—”

She swipes Jon’s beer and takes a long pull. When he raises his eyebrows at her, she says, “I’m half-sloshed as it is and I’m _nervous_ , okay, so quit looking at me like I amuse you. It’s making me self-conscious.”

“Not self-conscious enough to keep your hands off my booze, though.”

“Never self-conscious enough to turn down an opportunity for alcohol, no,” Sansa agrees. She wipes her mouth and hands the can back. “Anyway, back to Harry… I’d just leave, but then he’d think it’s because of him. Which, granted, it would be, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. He’s so _smug_ , ugh, god, it really gets to me.”

“So what do you want me to do, exactly?” Jon wants to know. He brings the can back to his lips and swears it tastes like her. _If only I knew…_ “Punch him in the face so he doesn’t look so smug anymore? I mean, I’ll do it, but—”

“No, you don’t have to fight him. I mean—” Sansa regards him curiously, then laughs again. “Oh my god, did you really think I wanted you to, like, _duel_ Harry for my honor?”

“Well ‘duel’ does sound cooler than ‘punch him in the face.’”

Sansa shakes her head. “No, defending my feminine sensibilities is not what I need your help with. Well, maybe a little bit, but it’s like—I just don’t want him to talk to me, you know? He’ll just make a thousand different cracks about how we never had breakup sex so shouldn’t we give that a swing?”

Jon grimaces. “You sure you don’t want me to hit him?”

Sansa gives him a soft smile to show that while she appreciates the sentiment, really it’s not necessary. The thought that he’d knock Harry out just to protect her feelings gives her a little thrill, sure, but she doesn’t want to succumb to whatever this pull Jon has on her. She’s got a stubborn streak to prove, and in that vein she won’t admit how utterly thickheaded that is.

“You don’t even have to talk to him. Just…” She bites her lip, hesitant to ask but emboldened by her blood alcohol level. “Just so he backs off could you, um, be like my, er, fake boyfriend for the night?”

Jon’s not sure how many times he can say “Oh” before the sound ceases to mean anything (not that it means much in the first place), but he’s sure he’ll find out by evening’s end. Sansa’s looking at him with expectant stars in her eyes and he’s staring back at her like a large-mouthed bass, probably, so naturally the first thing he blurts out is, “Hell, I’ll be your real boyfriend if you want.”

Sansa shoves him, all the better to ignore the somersault of her heart at his words. “I’m still waiting for you to break free of the spell I put you under. Unintentionally, by the way. So let’s not make any rash decisions, or my feelings are sure to get hurt when you finally snap out of it and run for the hills.”

He shakes his head and huffs, “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you want me anyway.” Sansa throws her hands up in a show of feigned indignation. “Will my womanly wiles _never cease_?”

“Doubtful.” Jon takes her hand, intertwines their fingers, and tugs her close. “But as your fake boyfriend, I’m obligated to say so.”

A positive barrage of butterflies erupts in Sansa’s gut when their eyes meet. His thumb rubs circles on the back of her hand and, god, it feels good. “So that’s a yes to ‘be my fake boyfriend?,’ is it?”

“Yeah, well…” Jon drains the rest of his drink in efforts to settle his nerves at having Sansa so close. It doesn’t work for shit. “Maybe if I ace the trial run, you’ll let me try the whole boyfriend thing on a full-time basis, too.”

* * *

As the night wears on, their nerves and consequent hesitation are slowly but surely replaced by something more like giddy anticipation. Jon thinks that if Sansa really were his girlfriend, all the furtive looks and laughs and the press of her hand in his or at the small of his back would just be a precursor to the touches they’d share when they were alone later. Jon desperately wants to be alone with her. He’d tell her, too, but no amount of booze can compel him to do so, lest his clumsy words pop that stupid giddy bubble floating in his ribcage.

Sansa admits that Jon puts on one hell of a show. He holds her hand, her hip, even slapped her arse playfully when she walked past him and winked at her when she laughed. He mixes her a drink and drops chaste kisses to her cheek—or would-be chaste, anyway, if he didn’t insist on licking the side of her face the last time.

“You had tequila on your cheek,” he tells her, all bullshit innocence that makes Sansa want to let him lick the inside of her mouth instead.

_Maybe he’s not talking shit when he says he’s got a thing for me_ , she allows herself to think. He certainly doesn’t look at her as though he’s talking shit. No, he looks at her like she strung the stars in the summer sky above them. Sansa’s head is reeling with tequila, but it’s so much more than a tipsy stupor when she catches his smile and thinks she could really fall in love with him. The thought is somehow fleeting and ever-present all at once, and it strikes Sansa like a lightning bolt.

“Shit,” she mutters into her cup. “Shit, shit, _shit_ —”

The queen of good timing, Arya chooses that very apropos moment to knock her shoulder into Sansa’s and ask, slurring her words only a bit, “The fuck’s going on with you and Jon?”

Sansa had barely admitted to herself that there was something going on at all; she can’t cave, not yet, not even to her sister. So she shrugs and tries to act breezy when she explains, “I asked him to pretend to be my boyfriend so Harry’ll bugger off.”

Arya giggles like a madwoman. “Who’s pretending?”

“Er… me and Jon?”

“Yeah, right,” Arya scoffs. “You’re not going to believe me in a million years because you’re an idiot, but he’s mad about you.”

Sansa’s stomach flutters and she attempts to drown it in her drink. “He mentioned something of the sort.”

“Well if you’re not gonna believe me, I’m not surprised you don’t believe him, either.” Arya shrugs. “I’d actually be rather insulted if you did, honestly.”

Sansa clinks her bottle against Arya’s in a toast. “Sisters before misters.”

“Fuckin’ _cheers_.”

Far enough away to be ignorant of the girls’ conversation but near enough to see them toasting over something that would likely deeply offend the rest of them, Robb turns to Jon. “For fuck’s sake, man, just because you’re cockblocking Harry doesn’t mean you’ve got to mark your territory. Quit staring at my sister.”

“Hey, mate, it was either me or Theon.” Jon shrugs as though the matter means nothing to him whatsoever. It’s not the biggest lie he’s told himself today, but it’s far from honest. “Pick your poison.”

“You’re both shitheads.”

“Speaking of…” Theon mumbles, then, louder, “Oi, Hardyng, what’s good, mate?”

Harry Hardyng—the boys’ mild nemesis from a rival school, Sansa’s ex, and the current bane of Jon’s existence—shoots them a toothy grin. “Evening, lads.”

_Smug bastard_ , Jon thinks, and takes another bracing swig of beer to stop himself from saying it aloud. Sansa had expressly asked him not to pick a fight with Harry, so Jon won’t. Probably. _We’ll see how things go._

As it transpires, things don’t go all that well.

The conversation is friendly enough, helped along by lowered inhibitions and the fact that their sporting rivalry doesn’t run terribly deep in the first place. Sansa shoots Jon a questioning look or two, but he waves her off with a small shake of his head. He’s not going to force her to play referee when the whole point of the fake boyfriend thing was so she wouldn’t have to talk to Harry herself. Besides, Jon is self-assured enough to know he’d likely deck Harry on principle if he came within a solid six feet of Sansa. So, theoretically, it’s best if she just stays put, even if that means she’s not there to smack some sense into Jon when Harry finally tips the scales from friendly to certified douchebag.

Jon only knows Harry in passing, more or less, so it’s quite off-putting when Robb and Theon head off to a nearby cooler and Harry grins at Jon like they’re old pals.

“So,” he says, ever the cheery conversationalist, “chasing my leftovers, are you, Snow?”

_This can’t be good,_ Jon thinks, but he lets it happen, anyway. “What?”

“Sansa. She’s a looker. Charming girl. Too monogamous for me, though. Like the commitment you have to give this girl…” He shakes his head, still grinning like a cheesy game show host. “She’s clingy, right?”

_Definitely not good._ “Weren’t you her boyfriend?”

“Well, yeah, but it didn’t mean anything. I was just trying to seal the deal,” Harry says, like they’re discussing some sort of business transaction and not the girl Jon would gladly rip his beating heart out for. “The whole labelling thing seemed like the easiest way to get there.”

“Seal the deal?” Jon echoes dully. There’s a ringing in his ears and his voice sounds far away, as though he’d been on the wrong end of an explosion, because who the _fuck_ looks at Sansa Stark like she’s some meaningless, throwaway conquest? Who the hell is Harry Hardyng to debase her when in all likelihood he can’t even walk and chew gum at the same time?

“Uh, yeah,” Harry chortles, misreading Jon’s expression so wildly that he must think they’re on the same page now. “What’s the point of going with a girl like her if you don’t get your dick wet, right?”

“Right,” Jon says, more to himself than to Harry. He takes a final pull of his beer and tosses the can aside. “Okay.”

Harry doesn’t have a moment to ascertain the situation before it’s already happened: Jon rears back his fist and clocks him, dead center. Harry stumbles back a step, swearing through what’s sure to be a broken nose. Behind him, Theon _whoops!_ appreciatively, and Robb’s spit out a mouthful of beer in equal parts shock and awe.

“Oi, I thought we agreed that _I’d_ get to deck him?” Arya chimes in over the gasps, whistles, and _holy shit_ ’s.

“Sorry,” Jon says to her, in that moment determined to look anywhere but Sansa. “Figured I’d take this one.”

“Ay, Hardying!” Arya calls. “Is it broken?”

“Damn it, I think so,” Harry swears thickly. “What the—”

“Alright, then,” Arya cuts him off with a curt nod. “I’ll let this one slide, Snow. Next one’s mine.”

Sansa shakes off her own surprise so it gives way to a calm sort of fury. “There’s not going to be a _next one_ ,” she spits, her gaze locked on Jon’s as she stalks towards him.

“San, seriously,” Harry says as she approaches, grateful to have someone to complain directly to, “put a leash on your boy—”

“Shut up, Harry,” she snaps. Without stalling her steps, she grabs Jon by the collar and drags him after her up the beach. “Jon, let’s go. I’ll let you bandage your hand before I give you a swift kick to the arse.”

“Kinky!” Theon shouts after them.

Sansa flips him off, but keeps walking without another word. Thankfully, she releases her grip on Jon so as not to strangle him with his own shirt, which would be a pretty humiliating way to go. Although Jon almost wishes she would have put him out of his misery; far from the stinging pain in his knuckles, her fuming silence is a much more effective punishment for his loss of temper. She keeps up the silent treatment all the way back to the Starks’ house. The only sounds she makes are the occasional huff, and the slamming of the screen door and then the freezer as she shuffles around in the icebox. When she does deign to speak to him, it’s in a sudden, barely controlled rage.

“I _specifically said_ —” Sansa grits her teeth as she wraps the ice in a washrag. She takes a breath that doesn’t calm her, counts to ten even though that never works, and continues, “I asked you to pretend to be my boyfriend, not punch my old one.”

“I thought it came with the territory,” Jon says coolly. He takes the ice before she can knock him upside the head with it. “Thanks.”

She ignores his gratitude, instead choosing to dig into him as he presses the chilled cloth to his red knuckles. “That was _embarrassing_.”

Jon scowls, not at Sansa but at the all-too-recent memory of Harry’s words as they ring in his stewing mind. “You don’t even know what he said.”

“I went out with him,” Sansa unhelpfully reminds him. “I know the stupid things he says. What’d he do, ask you what you’re doing with his sloppy seconds? Call me a prude? Said I was only good for a blowie? Somehow it was both, because Harry says stupid, dickish things all the time. Why? Because he’s a dick,” she snaps before Jon can guess. “Deal with it.”

“I did deal with it,” he points out. “By punching him in the face.”

Sansa huffs again, annoyed. “God, men are so emotionally volatile.”

Annoyed himself now, Jon lets her rile him up even more. He’s riding on adrenaline and, more than that, the high of having touched her all night but unable to have her the way that he wants. So he demands just as much of her when he says, “Why should I let him get away with saying that about you? Screw that, Sansa. I wasn’t going to let him talk about you like that.”

She very nearly stamps her foot. “Why _not_?”

“Because you deserve _better_ than that,” Jon tells her, as emphatically as he’s ever said anything before. “Because nobody should make you feel the way he made you feel. Because you were so goddamn nervous about him hanging ‘round that you needed to use me as your crutch.”

Sansa winces. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t. Sweetheart, I know.” Jon’s tone is soft now. He sets the ice in the sink and flexes his fingers, then takes her hands in his. “I did it because you asked me to, you said you needed me. I’m not mad about that.” _How could I be?_ “But I’m sorry, I can’t walk away from a guy like that, who acts like he knows you when he doesn’t, not at all.”

Sansa stares at their joined hands and her voice is quiet. “You hardly know me, either.”

Well, Jon thinks, in for a penny, in for a pound. He’s still riding high and he doesn’t see the point in stopping now. Not when he’s got her soft hand in his busted one. Not when they’re alone like he’d wanted them to be all night. Not when Sansa can’t even look at him, and all he wants is to get those baby blues on him so she can see how sorry he is. So she can see the way he’s looking at her, and maybe this time it’ll mean something more than what she’s experienced before.

“Better than that. You _know_ it’s better than that,” he says, low and soothing like he wants nothing more than to comfort every part of her that’s ever hurt. “I’m not patting myself on the back here, I’m not, but I listen to you. I pay attention to you. Because I want to, because I _like_ you, Sansa. I think you’re brave and clever and strong. I think you’re honest and arrogant and you don’t pretend to be anything else.”

He’s so close, his grip so strong and sure on hers, his words dripping with an authenticity that Sansa has never, ever known when he adds, “I’ve never met anybody as genuine as you are.”

It’s too much, Sansa thinks while her heart clenches painfully, deliciously. She meets his eye again and it’s too much. Too perfect. Too everything she’s ever wanted. She pulls away. She needs to. This isn’t fun and flirty, it’s deep and serious and it makes her want to drag him to her bedroom and never leave. And she can’t do that, not now. Now, she’s supposed to be angry with him for being an idiot; she just needs a _minute_.

So instead of latching her mouth onto his until neither of them can breathe, Sansa slips her hands from his and heads back to the fridge. She pops the caps on two beers, hands him one, and tries to lighten the tension by saying, “So. You like me, huh?”

Jon rolls his eyes. Every time he gets close, she shuts herself away again; but he’s getting there. He can tell. He’ll play along for however long she needs. For now, he takes a drink. “Seeing as I’ve already told you that, I thought it was obvious.”

“It was, but I didn’t want to embarrass you.” Sansa leans against the counter and tips beer between her pretty, grinning lips.

“You didn’t know, did you?” Jon states the obvious. “Even though I said it. You didn’t believe me.”

“I just—I don’t let myself go there anymore.” Unsure of what to do with herself when he gets all _serious business_ on her, she shrugs and shakes her head and drinks some more. “Lot of disappointments.”

“Better to guard your heart than give it up, hm?”

She snorts. “Yeah, okay, thanks, _One Tree Hill_.”

“Shut up,” Jon chuckles. “You thought I was using you for sex or some bullshit, didn’t you?”

“Well you’re a _guy_.”

He doesn’t bother saying _not all guys_. It’s a fucking stupid thing to say, and from what Jon knows of Sansa, she has no reason to believe it, anyway. He’s not going to bicker with her about _all guys_. He doesn’t give a shit about any other guy. He cares about her, and them, and nobody else in-between.

“Is that why you chucked Harry, then?” he wants to know. He’s not particularly keen on bringing up the subject of their argument again, but Sansa has considerably relented upon her irritation so he figures it’s as safe as it’s ever going to be.

“Sort of? I wouldn’t have sex with him at all and he was an arse about it,” Sansa reveals, surprised at her own readiness to do so. But it feels good to talk about it. It feels good to talk to _Jon_ , and she doesn’t want to stop, so she doesn’t. “Usually I would have tried to work it out with the guy, but… I don’t know. This time I’d had enough. I was just done.”

Jon nods. He doesn’t know if he should ask the question on the tip of his tongue, but fuck it—she can break his other hand open if she wants. “Are you—um, like, abstinent?”

There’s a soft smile on her lips that tells Jon he’s safe for now, but she shakes her head in response. “We had a sexual relationship, I just stopped him from doing whatever he wanted. Besides, he wasn’t very considerate during foreplay, so the sex wouldn’t have been for us, anyway, right? Just for him. And that’s—whatever.” Her face heats and she curses her complexion. “It was frustrating. I mean, I don’t need a guy to give me an orgasm. I’ve come to the conclusion that you lot just aren’t capable. That’s mostly a joke, by the way,” she says before Jon can think to argue. “But it’s quicker for me to do it myself. Five minutes, and I get on with my life.”

Jon really needs to stop gaping at her, but he can’t quite help it. “That is… a sad way to deal with your orgasms.”

“Yeah,” Sansa agrees. “I try not to examine it too much.”

“Look, I don’t know if I should say this, but…” Well, he’s said plenty he shouldn’t by now, hasn’t he? Might as well keep diving deeper. “What an idiot. I mean, have you _seen_ you? What was his problem?”

“He doesn’t like the taste, apparently.”

“Of you?” Jon snorts incredulously. He should be more sheepish, but he’s had enough to drink to keep at it. “Okay. Yeah. Sure. Sounds plausible.”

Sansa laughs, the tension all but eased out of her now. God, but it’s easy to be with him… “I could taste like a dumpster behind a questionable sushi place for all you know.”

“No you don’t. No one tastes like that, for one thing.”

“That’s fair.” She gives a little acquiescent shrug, then all too casually asks, “So what do you think I taste like?”

For the second time that night, Jon nearly spits out his beer. He looks at her, then away, and splutters, “I don’t want to have this conversation.”

“Buddy, you _led us_ to this conversation.” Sansa points her bottle accusingly at him. “Come on, tell me, I want to know. If you don’t tell me I’ll never even have a guess. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that no one’s going to check for sure.”

_Ah, shit…_ “I would.”

She squints at him. “You would what?”

“Erm—” Jon gestures vaguely with his own bottle. “Go down on you. If you want.”

That only makes her squint more. “How much money did Theon give you?”

“What? Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Jon sighs, his own embarrassment forgotten in light of Sansa’s continued incorrigibility, “nobody gave me any money. I’ve been flirting with you for almost three weeks, and—”

“You go from flirting to cunnilingus in less than a _month_?” Sansa demands, her tone falling somewhere between aghast, amused, and maybe a little aroused at the thought of Jon’s head between her legs. “Leaps and bounds, sir.”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but he aches at the thought of tasting her. “You have a nice smile.”

Sansa swears under her breath. “What sort of pornographic romancing—”

“Offer’s on the table, Stark.”

“I can’t believe you’re just all nonchalantly offering to eat me out.”

“Are you accepting?” Jon crosses his fingers behind his back. _Please please please please please please please—_ He’s actually on the verge of begging her out loud, but he thinks he might shock her straight into the hospital if he tells her how badly he wants to eat her pussy. There’s not a chance in hell he’ll be able to keep his filthy thoughts to himself forever, but fuck, he should probably give her a moment of peace beforehand.

_Um, hell yeah I am_ , Sansa thinks privately, but only regards him thoughtfully and teases, “I haven’t decided.”

“What, you don’t think I’m cute?”

It’s Sansa’s turn to roll her eyes. “No, you’re hideous.”

Jon laughs. He can do this, he tells himself. He can flirt with her, he can fight with her, he can proposition her, and they can go ‘round and ‘round in this cycle of will-they-won’t-they? and he won’t spend a minute of the rotation complaining. She’s furious with him one minute and they’re joking the next. It’s weird and unexpected and maybe the most natural thing in the world. It doesn’t make any sense and yet nothing’s ever felt more right.

They just _fit_ , Jon thinks. Maybe they shouldn’t. At any other point in his life, Jon thinks that maybe they wouldn’t. But maybe there’s a reason they hadn’t met ‘til now—now, when Sansa’s not distracted by a long string of disappointing relationships; now, when Jon isn’t too young and dumb to know what he wants, when he knows that giving up might be easier but it’s not nearly worth it in the long run.

And Sansa… God damn, but is Sansa worth it. He’ll tell her a million times if he needs to; he’ll never even get tired of it.

_Now or never, right?_

“Look, Sansa…” He sets his beer aside and pushes away from the sink to close the few steps between them. He crowds her against the countertop—slowly, deliberately, gaze never breaking. “I know you think it’s fast. I get it. But I don’t just flirt for fun. I never flirt, I’m shit at it. But you… I really want you to know that I like you, Sansa.”

“So you told me.” There’s a nervous bob in her throat as she looks up at him—barely up, he’s not that much taller at all, they’re almost eye-to-eye.

He grins, his hands braced on the edge of the counter near her hips. “Yeah, you don’t believe me, though.”

“Yeah, well, that’s just like the luggage tags on all my emotional baggage.”

“I get it,” Jon says again. “It’s why I keep telling you. If you need my reassurance, here it is. Over and over again, if you need it. I’ve got plenty of time.”

“That’s what you think,” Sansa tries to joke, but it’s near impossible to be cavalier when he’s this close to her. When he’s all but holding her and all she wants is for him to just _do it_ already. “My brother could walk in the door any minute now.”

“God—” Jon’s laugh is breathy and ragged, his senses overwhelmed by the tang of her skin— “ _don’t_ talk about your brother when I’m about to kiss you.”

Her heart is pounding, skittering, completely out of her control. But _as if_ she’s ever had control of it, not since Jon walked up the drive and rocked her world with a simple _hullo_. “You’re going to kiss me?”

“Oh my god, Sansa, just—” His fingers flex and he can’t stop his nervous bursts of laughter— “yes, I’m going to kiss you.”

“Right now?”

“That was the plan.”

It’s a bad idea. Sansa knows it is—it has to be, because she wants it so much and everything she’s wanted with this much fervor has been a bad idea, so why should this be any different?

It’s a bad idea, and yet she has no plans to stop it.

“If it’s going to be right now,” she continues to stall, tipping on that all-too-familiar precipice between what she wants and what she thinks is good for her, “then why are we still talki—”

Jon doesn’t even let her finish before he cups her jaw and slants his mouth against hers. She’s talked enough, he’s thought enough, and they’ve both restrained themselves longer than either of them had wanted to.

The first time Jon kisses her, it’s like a summer thunderstorm shock to his core.

And fuck, does she taste good. Jon doesn’t even try to stifle his groan, and his body shifts into hers, hard and fast and so enthusiastically that her tailbone digs painfully into the counter’s edge. Her mouth opens immediately upon meeting his, and she tastes like salt and sea and that night’s tequila slammers. His tongue is all stale beer and Sansa sucks on it like it’s the only way she can breathe. Her fingers tangle between his curls and his dig into her hips, urging them to meet the gentle but insistent thrust of his own.

“Jesus Christ,” Jon breathes against her seeking lips. He swallows her giggle so that it reverberates in his own chest and travels straight to his twitching cock. He’d fuck her against the counter in a hot second—he knows it, she knows it, but he wants to make this last longer than his traitorous, might-as-well-be adolescent libido would allow.

“I’ve wanted to do this for three damn weeks,” he murmurs. His hands sweep over the shape of her hips, the flat plane of her stomach, then down to the snap of her shorts. Sansa’s chest hitches against his but his fingers hover as he asks, “Can I?”

She whines out a _yes_ and kisses him harder. Maybe she’s being stupid and easy and jumping the gun, but she wants him to touch every inch of her that he can get his lovely hands on.

Jon doesn’t say _fuck yes_ out loud, but he’s sure Sansa can feel it in the way he nearly rips her shorts in two in his overzealous attempt to unclasp them. He licks into her mouth the way he wants to do between her legs— _not yet not yet not yet_ , he just wants to give her a taste of the way he wants to taste her. Her back arches into his touch, her cunt pressed against his eager hands; he moves a fraction to press his hard-on into her, just for some relief, just so she knows what she does to him when he thinks about her. Just so she _knows_.

He dips his hand into her low-slung panties and something in his brain snaps—his control, his reason, he doesn’t know, but whatever had been holding him back breaks when he finds her just wet enough that he knows that summer thunderstorm kiss rattles her just as much as it does him. She wants him like he wants her, and he’ll show her it’s worth it.

“ _Christ_ , Sansa.” He tears his mouth away and his moan mingles with hers when a second finger joins his first. He paints a tortuously slow path from her navel to the heat of her cunt, then back up to trace its shape, then down again to tease her clit. “Jesus _fucking_ Christ, you’re wet for me. Just me, just you and me, San—”

Jon works his mouth on her throat, careful not to leave a hickey no matter how much he wants to—god, he wants to. His free hand pulls the neck of her tank top lower, his fingers hooking into her bra and yanking it aside so he can suck a bruise onto her tit where no one will see. But he’ll know, and he’ll remember the way Sansa curses and breathes his name while he does it.

Her hips cant into his—his touch, his thrust—and she twists and tugs at his hair as he takes her higher and higher. Her toes curl, then push up when he thumbs her clit and bites the soft swell of her breasts. _Jesus fucking Christ_ is right, because Jon’s got her riding his hand like a desperate, overeager animal in heat, and nobody’s _ever_ made her feel like this before, this is far and away better than the five minutes she spends on herself when she’s feeling antsy—it’s in his hot breath on her skin, the way he paws at her like he wants to claim how good he makes her feel, it’s in his tongue on her and his fingers inside her, it’s the filthy whispers he tattoos on her neck—

She bites back a gasp when he nips her ear, sucks on the lobe, and swirls his tongue in the hollow behind it. She wants his labored breath to form words that will resonate right here, right in her ear, to make her shiver and shake and want: “Keep talking to me.”

“You like that?” He doesn’t skip a beat. Her demand sends a thrill down his spine, and Jon wants to make her come with his thumb on her clit and his beer-battered voice in her ear. “You’re so _fucking_ sexy, Sansa. So wet for me. I want you to ride my cock like this, sweetheart, just like this.”

He trails open-mouthed kisses over her cheek, her jaw, his voice rasping words that drive her mad all the while. “You want that, Sansa? Do you want me?”

One hand works furiously inside her jeans, the other kneading her half-exposed breast. His hands are rough and Sansa wants them _everywhere_ and she moans _yes yes_ _yes, I want you_ against his lips when they find hers, hungry and sloppy and all-consuming—

“Oh, _fuck, Jon_ —” The pitch of her voice increases, then breaks on a stream of expletives and harsh breaths and his name.

Jon slows the intense press of his fingers as he swallows every sound that comes from her mouth. He slips his hand out from between her trembling thighs, pulling kisses from her as he relents. He’s not finished, not nearly; he’s panting, aching for a taste of her when she hits her peak. Jon’s ready to drop to his knees, to make her come with his mouth so her orgasm rides on his tongue—

The front door slams.

“Oi, Sansa!” Robb’s drunken voice echoes in the entryway, accompanied by Theon and Arya’s raucous chorus of a pop song they’re not singing correctly. “Have you already got rid of Snow’s body, or do you need our help to bury him?”

“Motherfu—” Jon swears, then takes Sansa’s mouth one more time—just once, hard and quick, but he lingers long enough for her to trust that he’s not done with her yet. “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill him.”

“Not if I get to him first,” she whimpers. She cards her hands through his hair, tugging at the ends and rolling her lower body against his, swift and fleeting but it drives him up the wall regardless. “Tell them I went to bed, and you can come join me when they pass out, yeah?”

“Yeah.” He tries to catch his breath, and nods as he zips and buttons her shorts for her, just so he can touch her a little while more. _Later_ , he mouths, the word barely audible but it makes her shiver nonetheless.

_Later_ , Sansa whispers right back, and—remembering the way he’d so delightfully manhandled her on the beach earlier—she gives him a good smack on the arse on her way out of the kitchen.

“Retribution!” she shouts over her shoulder, and Jon’s laughter follows her all the way down the hall to her room.


	4. darling, lately...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: please excuse the long wait with the following excess of smut (which is all i ever intended this chapter to be, anyway)

It’s hours later before Sansa is roused from sleep by the press of Jon’s lips against her neck. 

The sleepy but appreciative hum starts low in her throat, and Jon opens his mouth against the slight reverberation to taste her skin. His hand slides up her shirt to palm her hickey-littered breast while he’s at it; Sansa arches into his touch and hums again.

“Thought you’d fallen asleep,” she says, voice husky from her own handful of hours. Her hands slip down to his waist to toy with the strings of the athletic shorts he’d changed into. She feels his cock twitch when her fingers graze his front; Jon muffles his answering groan into the corner of her jaw.

“‘Course I didn’t,” he tells her, almost incredulously if he weren’t so preoccupied with feeling her up (her teasing fingers aren’t exactly helping his concentration, either). “Your dumbass brother wouldn’t let me, even if I’d wanted to. They had me pounding shots for an hour at least. All I could think about was you, I wasn’t about to go to my bed alone when you were waiting for me here.”

“I wouldn’t’ve blamed you,” Sansa reassures him around the flip of her heart. As much as she wants this, wants _him_ , she couldn’t begrudge him his rest. They’d been drinking all afternoon and well into the evening; it wasn’t unheard of to pass out whether she was waiting for him or not. “It’s—what time is it?”

“Little after one A.M.” But Jon doesn’t really give a shite about the time. All he’s been able to think about is the way he made her come against the kitchen counter, and how he wants to hear her say his name when they’re alone in her bedroom. She’s been driving him crazy for _weeks_. So now he wants to drive her a little bit wild, too.

He takes her mouth, fleetingly, relishing her chapped lips, before she pulls away and mutters, “I have morning breath.”

“Uh-uh. You taste good.” Jon pulls another kiss from her mouth to prove his point. His own breath is cool and minty fresh—he must’ve brushed his teeth, unfair bastard that he is—on her lips when he murmurs, “I bet all of you tastes good, too.”

A bit regretfully, Jon releases his hold on her breast to shove his hands into her sleep shorts. The flash of regret is, however, short-lived once he’s found that she’s wearing nothing under them. He moans into her neck. “ _Shit_ , you’re so hot…”

“I’ve wasted three weeks.” Sansa smirks, then tugs again on his shorts to pull him closer. She wants to feel all of him, everywhere, while she licks his neck and he huffs short, harried but satisfied breaths that burst against her skin. “You think I was gonna let my panties get in the way?”

“I wouldn’t call it a waste,” Jon says all-too-conversationally as his fingers begin their work on her. “I’ve liked convincing you that I like you… that I fancy you… that I want you…” 

Each declaration is punctuated by his lips on her cheek and one, two, three fingers slipping inside her. “I like telling you, over and over… and I liked it when you finally started to listen to me, just a few hours ago, when I had you up against the counter and you let me touch you…”

His hips are thrusting in a steady rhythm along with his hand now, and Sansa’s rocking against him in turn. Her breath is coming hot and heavy and her fingers are curled around the band of his shorts, nails grazing his rapidly heating skin, and _god_ but does he want her hands on him…

“I’d let you touch me, too,” Jon mouths against her ear while his tongue laves attention on the lobe. He pumps his fingers and his thumb circles her clit. “Come on, sweetheart, Sansa, touch me—”

 _“Mmmmph…”_ It’s a short sigh that breaks on a moan when Sansa pushes a hand into his pants and wraps it around his thrusting dick. She takes him slow and sure, rubbing him like she means to give him a soothing massage rather than turn him on, so that he might fuck her into the mattress before the sun rises. “Like that? Is this how you want me to touch you, Jon?”

He can hear the tease in her voice just as much as he can hear the want. But it doesn’t make a difference what it is, because she’s sighing his name and canting her hips in time with his; he’d want her no matter what she said now, no matter how she touched him.

“ _Fuck_ , yeah, it is.” He moves in her grip like it’s her pussy. The thought alone is nearly enough to make him come in her hand, but he’s not about to let this end so quickly. He can only take so much of her thumb on his head before he pulls his own fingers from her to take her wrist and make her stop.

“Hang on—hold on, just a sec,” Jon breathes. He kisses her neck in his efforts to regulate his heartbeat; of course, kissing her anywhere only makes him want her more, but he can’t help himself from having a taste of her. She’s so _sweet_ and _warm_ , he could drown in her, he could do nothing but trace his tongue in every dip and crevice and shadow of her skin. 

His head is swimming from alcohol and the heady thrill that is Sansa—she tastes of summer; and when he’s with her, every other season, everything else, ceases to exist.

“What’s the matter?” she asks now, as he continues to suck on her jaw. “You wanna stop?”

“No.” His curls tickle her chin when he shakes his head. He lifts his face to hers to take her mouth again, and wastes no time in slipping his tongue between her lips. She responds immediately, eagerly, chasing his tongue with hers when he sucks, licks, and traces the shape of her teeth. 

He nips at her bottom lip, swollen from his attentions, and mutters gruffly, “No, sweetheart, I don’t wanna stop. You want me to?”

“No.” Sansa grips his waist, bunching his T-shirt between her fingers and pulling him firmly against her so she can grind on his leg, so she can press her tits to his chest and make him want her. “No, don’t stop, I want you—I want you to—”

“This?” Jon tugs her shorts down, and his lips are following the line of her throat, her sternum, her stomach, down to where she’s wet and waiting for him. His voice is rough and rushed and yearning for her _yes_ : “You want this, Sansa? You want me to eat you out, baby, you want me to make you come like this?”

She gives him that _yes_ he’s begging for, and he moans _oh thank god_ before opening his mouth on her cunt.

He holds her steady with a hand on her hip while he fucks her with his tongue, alternating between luxuriously slow and furiously quick and back again. Her toes curl against the backs of his thighs and her fingers are in his hair. 

Jon’s free hand returns to her chest; he only wishes he could get his mouth on her tits and her cunt at the same time—and the slope of her neck, and that spot behind her ear, and the arch of her foot, and the space between her eyebrows, and the jut of her hipbones and the dip of her knee and on the curve of her smile. He wants to kiss her _everywhere_ , always, all at once. 

God, he never thought a little summer love would consume him so completely. But Sansa had taken his heart like it had always been hers, and he’d been all too willing to let her have it.

She can keep the damn thing, so long as he gets hers in return.

 _“Jon—”_ Sansa follows the gasp of his name with a series of ever-escalating whimpers, moans, near-sobs of ecstasy. Jon’s hand moves from her breast to her mouth to keep her quiet enough that she doesn’t wake the house, but she’s still loud enough for him to hear.

 _“Shhhhhh,”_ he murmurs, licking up her slit as he does so. “Shh, sweetheart—” But he dives into her anew and rubs his hard cock against her leg because he wants to hear her get excited, wants to hear her rile up and come down and just fucking _come_.

Sansa moans when he sucks on her clit, and she sucks his fingers into her mouth in return. He swears into her oncoming orgasm: “ _Fuck_ , love, how’m I supposed to make you come when you’re doing that to me?”

The arch of her hips and the flick of her tongue is simultaneous. She doesn’t seem to have an answer for him, but in truth Jon hadn’t expected one. All he knows is how _good_ she makes him feel—desired and worthwhile and like he’s actually making a difference to her, like he’s the only one in the world whose head she’d let between her legs. And fuck, but he could stay here all night…

His mouth is still open and hot on her, all through her release; he laps at her like he’s dying of thirst. The hand on her hip jerks upwards to bring her more fully against his face. He could suffocate in her sweetness and die happy with her taste on his tongue, with the evidence on his lips, with his curls wild from her hold on them.

The room is spinning and dark and quiet apart from labored breaths and frantic heartbeats. Jon kisses his way back up her stomach, slinging her shorts around her hips as he goes. 

Sansa’s hands are back in his hair when she rears up to kiss him. He can feel her heart hammering through her flimsy cami, the one he’d rucked up time and again to get to her tits. He wants to ruck it up again and tease her nipples with lips and teeth and tongue, and wonders if he could make her moan his name again, wonders if she’d come with just his mouth on her chest. He thinks he might try that next.

“Good?” Jon murmurs into the corner of her mouth, his voice a gruff hush beneath the whir of the box fan. His hands sweep up her sides as he kisses her cheek. “Was that good, sweetheart?”

“Mmmmm…” Sansa purrs like a cat, and Jon doesn’t bother trying to mask a small, smug chuckle. He’s still hard for her when she presses her well-loved cunt against him. “Mmm, Jon, I wanna do that to you.”

“What?” He snaps away so quickly that he almost gives himself whiplash, only to catch her grin in the darkness. His chest is heaving and his mind a scramble of lusty anticipation. “You wanna—”

“Yeah.” Her legs lock around him and, with surprising strength, she flips their positions so she’s straddling his lap. She’s raining kisses over his neck—hard, determined presses of her lips and hot swipes of her tongue. Her hips rotate into his hardness and Jon really, really wants to rip away her shorts and fuck her now.

But Sansa already has her hands back in his pants, and Jon’s reeling too much to stop her. And when she tells him, _honey, I wanna hear you scream my_ _name_ , her name is the only thing he can remember.

 _God damn_ , he thinks with his hands fisted in her hair, but he’s never been happier to pull an all-nighter than now, when Sansa’s got him in her bed like she never wants him to leave—and not even the sunrise winking in-between the shades could make him go.


	5. be my baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: fluff! it’s all fluff! it’s a goddamn cotton candy factory up in my brain rn

Just as swiftly as Sansa had once dismissed Jon’s rather pointed declarations of interest, now she finds nothing easier to believe. It had been three weeks since he’d walked into her life and another three since he’d crawled into bed with her, and that’s all the time it had taken for Jon to prove his words with actions.

 _Six weeks_ , she thinks with a shake of her head that does nothing to disguise her dopey smile. _Six weeks, and you’re gone on him for life._

It should seem too fast; it should scare the hell out of her. But it’s hard to worry over potential regrets when Jon’s just as gone on her, too. Once, all she had known was the crash-and-burn; but it only takes one to show you otherwise.

Since that first night in the kitchen and then again in her bedroom, Sansa and Jon had managed to snatch moments alone—out from under the suspicious eyes of Arya, Bran, and Rickon, and Theon’s ever-insistent grin; Robb, meanwhile, remains blissfully ignorant, and considering his penchant for dramatics, that’s just as well.

Even today, while the rest of them had headed out in the overcast drizzle outside to brave the boardwalk, Jon conveniently complains of a migraine just as Sansa yawns and decides she fancies an afternoon nap.

Theon smirks, the very picture of the cat who got the canary, and says, “Sounds like you both need a good endorphin rush. Tell you what, Snow, Sansa’s the _giving_ sort— _if_ you know what I mean, and I’m sure you do—” here he pauses to wink— “so I’m sure if you scratch her back, she’ll very charitably give you a—”

Jon tackles him off the sofa and onto the floor before he can finish. Theon only laughs when Robb shouts for them to break it up, “and fuck off, Theon, or else I’ll let Jon beat you to a bloody pulp next time you talk about my sister like that.”

Sansa merely shrugs and says to Arya, “Told you Jon could take Theon in a fight.”

Later, when the house is quiet save for the pitter-patter of rain against the windowpane, when Jon is drawing long, lazy kisses from Sansa’s lips, he says, “So you think I could beat Theon up, d’you?”

She chuckles. “Reckon you’re both too soft to fight each other, really. But my baser instincts really liked seeing you try.”

“Oh, so when I deck Harry Hardyng, I’m in trouble,” Jon reminds her, “but when I do it to Theon you think it’s cute?”

“It was like watching puppies wrestling.”

Jon pulls away from where he’d been nuzzling her neck to watch her laugh. Despite his intention to be the utmost offended, he caves almost immediately at the sight of her smile. He compromises with himself by kissing her and muttering into it, “I am a _man_ , not a _puppy_.”

That only makes Sansa laugh more, which, in turn, makes Jon kiss her harder—not because he wants her to stop, but because that light, husky laugh of hers gets him all worked up and kissing her’s the only way back down to earth.

His hand moves to cup her pretty face, thumb caressing the curve of her cheekbone. His inhale is quick and sharp when Sansa sucks on his tongue, and his hips grind into hers of their own accord. She meets his steady thrust with her own while her fingers twist into the curls at the nape of his neck, pulling his mouth more firmly to hers to deepen the kiss. _God_ , okay, but she loves kissing him; if that’s all he’d ever offered, Sansa would have taken it gladly. If it were anatomically possible to orgasm with just his mouth on hers and nothing else, she’s sure he’d have her coming with the most unassuming of pecks.

But he’s pulling back again before she can get him started. Sansa whimpers, but Jon grins down at her with stars in his stupid dreamy eyes. It’s soft, the way that he looks at her, and Sansa doesn’t know how she ever could have mistaken it for anything but what it is—honest, and real, and all for her.

“You don’t think it’s too fast, then?” he asks, not for the first time, because he knows how she’d tiptoed around it and he doesn’t want to push. He touches her hair, runs his fingers through it, over and over and over again, lulling her into love just the way he had that night on the back porch. “Me and you?”

“Maybe,” Sansa says truthfully, and her hands card into his hair in turn, “but I don’t think it matters, though. I know how unsure I was about you, Jon, but… what can I say? You proved me wrong.”

It’s just what he wanted, precisely what he needed to hear to make his next move. Because three weeks of sneaking around is enough, isn’t it? Jon’s not complaining about the sneaking around, mind; they’ve had to be quick about it most of the time, but there’s an especial thrill to shoving his hands down Sansa’s shorts in the upstairs bathroom, or feeling her up in the front room when everyone else is in the kitchen, or ducking into her bedroom in the middle of the night to eat her out.

And then there had been today—now, when the rest of their group had left the house, leaving Jon and Sansa alone for hours on end, with the gray light of the rainy mid-afternoon streaming into her room, the gentle roll of thunder miles away, and Jon had stripped her clothes from her while Sansa toyed with the buttons of his shirt. The summer thunderstorm breeze crept through the cracked-open window. Jon had gone slow, tortuously slow, making sure to kiss every dip of her body when he peeled her clothes away to reveal uncharted territory.

“Go _faster_ ,” she’d half-laughed, half-begged, but he wouldn’t relent.

“I’m gonna take my time with you,” he’d murmured, and then he’d kissed her in the slowest, sweetest frenzy.

He’d fumbled with the condom—she’d laughed then, too—eager to get inside her, for her to wrap around him, to make her come while he feels her, _all_ of her, and kissing her senseless through it; but still he’d been gentle, thorough, and he’d made _her_ feel, too. Sansa had trailed her hands over every inch of him she could reach, committing the lines of his body to memory, so next time she might know just exactly where to touch to make him shudder the way he does to her.

Being with her like this, Jon can’t complain; the thought wouldn’t so much as cross his mind. But they’re going to have to come clean sometime. He’s going to have to tell Robb eventually, no matter how his continued state of oblivion suits them now. Jon wants more than _now_ with Sansa, and unless he’s greatly mistaken, she wants more than _now_ with him, too.

But just to be sure…

“I’m serious about you, Sansa,” he tells her. He’s still stroking her hair, unable to keep himself from touching her. “You know that, right? That you’re not a fling to me?”

“Even if I like being flung by you?” She shoots him a cheeky grin, but sobers when he keeps looking at her the way he is: all deep and meaningful and like he means to drown her in those stupid dreamy eyes of his. She smooths her hands over his neck, down to his collarbone, beneath which she can feel the thrum of his heart under her touch. “Yeah, Jon. I know. You can tell me as often as you like, though.”

“Good.” He presses his lips to that spot between her eyebrows and he breathes her in—sweat and strawberries and the faintest whiff of his own cologne. “I’m falling in love with you. You know that, too, right?”

Sansa’s heart stutters before it soars. “I’d hoped so.”

“Yeah?” Jon meets her eye, gaze steady even though his body is on fire with her words. Thunder crashes in the distance, and lightning cracks the cloudy sky into pieces. “You falling in love with me, then, Sansa Stark?”

“ _Yeah_ I am, Jon Snow.” She laughs again, arms around his neck so she can go in for the kiss. She doesn’t hear the storm at all. _He loves me loves me loves_ _me…_ “You couldn’t stop me.”

He meets her lips while rain stutters through the open screen. _She loves me loves me loves me…_ “Wouldn’t dream of trying.”

* * *

It’s hardly a week later that Jon blows their cover. The day is hot and hazy, and they’re grilling on the back porch of the house; just the seven of them, taking a long-awaited break from their wider social circle to decompress.

Besides, the beach crowd is wont to congratulate Jon on his wicked right hook, and Arya’s still sour that she didn’t get to deck Harry before Sansa put the kibosh on doing so. Arya blames Jon for the sudden referendum on punching Sansa’s exes; and she’s not shy about pointing it out, either. Take today, for example.

“Hey, Arya, want a beer?”

“I want a release for my violent tendencies,” she’d replied, then swept so haughtily back into the house for her own drink that you’d think she was channeling Sansa’s spirit. Jon laughs and shakes it off; he wouldn’t mind seeing Arya give Hardyng the ol’ one-two, either, but they both know better than to shirk Sansa’s wishes. 

With Arya’s momentary departure, the boys are left alone on the porch: Robb standing guard over the pop and sizzle of the grill, Jon leaning against the railing, and Theon splayed fabulously over the nearest cushioned seat. Rickon’s iPod is plugged into a speaker and shuffling from one classic rock selection to the next. The summer breeze is hot and heady; it makes Jon think of Sansa, and maybe that’s why he does what he does without considering the consequences. 

“Robb,” he blurts without taking a moment to second-guess himself, “I fancy your sister.”

“Oh, shit.” Theon grins, and settles back on the lounger to watch the show. Jon and Robb ignore him—the former because he’s bracing himself for the outburst, and the latter because he’s already in the middle of it.

Robb’s face is twisted in sudden, disgusted incredulity. He flails his rubber spatula around and reels off his grievances: “Oh, Jesus, god, _why_ , man? I fuckin’ knew it. Oh my god. I did. I knew. Twat.”

He’s still muttering—mostly to himself—when Jon feels it safe enough to speak again. “Are you finished?”

Robb snorts and stokes the grill. “Fine.”

“Are you going to go completely nutters if I asked her out?”

“Oh, wait, so you seriously fancy her? You don’t just, like, _you know_?” Robb rather obscenely juts his hips to indicate what would have been obvious _without_ the pelvic thrust, thanks.

Jon lifts an eyebrow. “If that’s what you thought, why aren’t you kicking my arse right now?”

“My hands are full.” Robb slaps the spatula against a steadily burning hamburger for emphasis, and then his face is all business once more. “You haven’t— _you know_ —have you?”

“No,” Jon lies, and Robb knows (he’s flailing the spatula around again to prove it).

_“J’accuse!”_

Sansa chooses that very opportune moment to step back onto the porch, drink in hand and a mildly curious expression on her face as she regards her brother and his friends. “Why is Robb speaking French?”

Jon throws his hands up, defeated. “He’s cultured.”

This really isn’t going according to plan, but Jon must admit that’s his own fault, as he hadn’t a plan to begin with. _This is what you get when you’re too_   _single-mindedly obsessed with your smokin’ hot girl to focus properly_ , he thinks, almost ruefully, but it’s hard to regret much of anything when Sansa’s wearing that periwinkle sundress he likes so much.

“Did he find out we slept together? Oh, relax.” Sansa rolls her eyes when Jon gapes at her. “It’s not a secret.”

“It’s not?”

“I’m sorry,” Sansa says, not sounding sorry at all as she slips an arm around his waist and Theon wolf-whistles at them. “Did I not make that clear? This family is notoriously nosy, and very quick to the punch. I reckon Bran knew before it even happened.”

“I did,” Bran pops his head out of the kitchen’s open door to affirm, “but I’d rather not talk about it because it disgusts me.”

Robb turns the spatula on his brother then, but only to indicate emphatically rather than threaten. “You see??”

“No, it just disgusts me because that’s my sister,” Bran clarifies, much to Robb’s horror. “Objectively I think she and Jon make a nice couple.”

“WHAT.”

While Bran calmly endures his older brother's rant, Sansa cocks her head questioningly at Jon and asks, “Why are you even talking about this?”

He shrugs, then slides his arm around her shoulders. They’re out in the open now, after all, even if Robb’s having a conniption fit over it. “I wanted his blessing.”

“To sleep with me? You’re barking up a weird tree, Jon Snow.”

“No, I was going to ask you out.”

“I thought we were already going out.”

Jon’s hands are back in the air, but he maintains his hold on her all the same. “Well, what the hell do I know?”

He probably _should_ have known, though, Jon admits privately. _Definitely_ should have known. But he’s just old-fashioned enough to think the status of their relationship required a proposal of sorts, and Jon—for all his _I’m-falling-in-love-with-you_ ’s—hadn’t actually, properly asked her to be his girlfriend.

But Sansa doesn't seem to mind. She squeezes his hip, and spares her older brother a glance and the barest of explanations when she says, “Robb, Jon and I are going out. He’s already gotten the milk for free so you might as well deal with it.”

Arya reappears on the deck, laughing. “Did I just walk in on the tail end of a sex talk?”

“Confession,” Sansa corrects.

“Oh, you and Jon? Congrats.” Arya taps her cup against Sansa’s.

Robb fumes at his chortling sisters and befuddled friend. “How am I the only one who didn’t know?”

“Hey, I didn’t know, either,” Jon pipes up, probably unhelpfully, considering Robb’s current temperament. 

Of course, he’d known far more than Robb had; but for all his conversations with Sansa on the matter, Jon had never officially asked her anything. Not because he didn’t want to, obviously. He’d only wanted it to be… special, he thinks rather stupidly as Robb rounds on him again.

 _So much for the grand romantic gesture…_ Now nearly Sansa’s entire family, plus Theon, is privy to the moment Jon had meant to be for him and Sansa alone. And what's worse is that Robb’s waving the spatula at him again, shouting all the while.

“Excuse me? You think we’re still friends? We are not. We are not even in the same _boat_ right now. We are not _in cahoots_. You deflowered my sister!”

Sansa snorts an “Oh, please, Robb,” while Arya whistles, long and low. “Oh, my sweet summer child…”

“I don’t want to hear this!” Rickon calls from the kitchen.

“None of us want to hear this,” Bran agrees, and ducks back inside to avoid further details.

Theon, meanwhile, shrugs. “I don’t mind hearing it. I’m only sorry I didn't put money on it.”

Robb grits his teeth, closes his eyes, and appears to count to ten before he says, “Honest to god, I don’t know which one of you to kill first.”

“Well.” Sansa clicks her tongue, then presses a kiss to Jon’s cheek. Now it looks as though Robb’s decided to kill Jon first. “You’ve just about spoiled our lunch, burning the brats to a crisp and all, so call it even?”

“I like them burnt,” Arya supplies. She and Sansa exchange grins, fully aware that their nonchalance is only going to make Robb’s face go redder, Jon shuffle more uncomfortably, and Theon guffaw until he chokes on his own spit. And, in the end, that’s precisely what they achieve.

In fact, little else is solved that afternoon. They eat Robb’s burnt burgers and brats with gusto rather than complaint. Rickon ups the volume on his playlist, and (after a few shots between them) he and Bran duet an incorrect rendition of a Counting Crows song, while Theon loudly interrupts time and again with the proper lyrics. Arya is texting a schoolmate called Gendry and, with that, Robb laments his sisters’ entrapment in the world of love.

“You’re being hyperbolic again,” Sansa drawls when Robb toasts to the loss of their innocence.

“I’m in mourning,” Robb corrects her, and drinks deeply to mask his smile.

Sansa rolls her eyes, but her brother knows her own smile when he sees it. She’s on the lounger with Jon, tucked between his legs, back flush against his chest. He kisses her hair that’s teased by the humidity, and they’re holding hands. Robb has to admit—however begrudgingly, and of course he’d never say so aloud—that it’s rather cute.

Jon’s looking at Sansa like she’s the whole goddamn world, she’s resting against him like she’s finally safe in the circle of his arms, and Robb is glad of it all. The pair of them deserve nothing less than this, nothing else but each other. It hadn’t been Robb’s intention to play matchmaker in their summer plans, but—all his rubber spatula dramatics aside—he’d give himself a little credit where it’s due.

Sansa and Jon both would readily accept this fact, but for now the back porch is crowded and still the world is theirs. There is a chorus of tipsy duets and raucous laughter, and Jon is at ease, and Sansa content.

He leans into her ear and whispers, “Love you, you know,” and she says “I do” with her fingers intertwined with his. The Rolling Stones are in the air, and the summer wind whips her answer straight between his lips and into his heart:

“Love you back.”


End file.
